


Friday

by Lifotni



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: A presentation by Optimus Prime, F/M, How to fall in love, Post-War, Sexual Interfacing, break up and get back together in 2k words or less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24316603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lifotni/pseuds/Lifotni
Summary: How to fall in love (and mean it), a presentation by Optimus Prime
Relationships: Elita One/Optimus Prime
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Friday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Plenoptic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/gifts).



> For my partner, who I fall in love with more and more every single day. And miss so fucking badly. 
> 
> ...
> 
> Friday is for "Friday I'm in Love" by The Cure because I had it on repeat while writing this today.

He wonders how one can be so in love, yet not know at all what to do about it. 

It hurts on occasion, arriving as a sudden twinge that adjusts to an ache in his spark. But it is a good pain, despite how that would have once perplexed him. He likes it, rather, the pain, even if such a realization about his own masochism only came to him after finding out how love can truly hurt. 

Sparkbreak wasn't something he thought was a physical ailment. He only understood it as a poetic device. Poetic way of speaking about what manifested within the processor and then materialized as the volly of emotions sparkbreak wrought. But that was a very wrong assumption he realized when he finally met it, then came to make enemy with it, and then ultimately knew the pain in his chest to be his most… intimate injury. 

Before knowing love, when it was just an idea he wondered about experiencing one day, he contemplated what he would do about it once it set on him. How would he chase it? Could he? Would he even have to persue it or would love be secured for him once he found it? _Happened_ upon it, really, since never did he actively seek it out. Mecha seemed to go a little mad if they committed to that sort of hunt.

But falling in love. Now that was also a saying that confused him for the longest while. He wondered about it without fully understanding its meaning until... well, until it happened to him. Found him. Crashed into him.

He should have just waited.

 _Falling_ suggested that to love was an accident rather than brought on with intention. Like a crash. But again, once he knew love, Optimus realized that he couldn't do anything but collide into it. There was no escape if he tried and he had, but he was left to collapse back into it and sink deeper. 

_Making_ love. Now how profound a statement that was. And yet again, a pair of words that he did not understand until he knew love for the first time. He came to realize making love was anything but physical, despite how that challenged the definition of the act. No, making love occurred within physical intimacy, of course, as did interface, bedding, laying, fucking _, knowing_ \- but it was not just the simple connection of frames that composed love.

Rather, Optimus came to find making love was that look she gave him and what was behind the soft pale blue of her optics. That tilt of her helm towards the headboard, the ceiling, the sky with every thrust that was given when he was inside her - when she was inside him. It was the way her lips moved when she gasped or moaned, each of her pleasured sounds telling him how lost she was with him. Making love was the way she kissed him while they were within each other and how it would become so wet with a string of saliva spanning between their open mouths. Making love was fingers digging into back plating and leaving thin streaks of paint transfer along thighs. It was the aches under their plating in the morning and that faux disgruntled look she would give him when she saw the remnants of where he bit her neck in the mirror. 

But he also came to know that making love had boundaries for where it began - where sex ends and where love was the composer for how their hips move against one another. Passion was somewhere between the two, Optimus came to realize, acting as a sort of purgatory where emotions were muddled and puddled and spilled with no clear place to go if love wasn’t first eroding a stream for it to flow. 

Passion. That was where they were for a time and he would be lying if he said he didn’t look back upon the interval of their relationship with distaste. And in the midst of it, he was pained to know his disdain was mutual. The unspoken communication was confirmed with every look they gave one another after they separated and got up from whoever’s berth they clashed on with the refusal to stay a little while longer.

It was a peculiar moment in their history, and the span of time it existed was not one he willingly sought out the memories of. Rather he just stumbled upon them - usually after an unwelcome trigger. It was peculiar due to the fact that their time together, however fleeting the occasions lasted after they escaped for a short while behind a locked door, was perhaps some of the more passionate interface they would ever have. 

_Furiously_ passionate. He could not think of a better word than furious. Not towards each other, no, on the contrary, their fury was directed at the air around them. Their situation pinning them down with greater might than their interlocked hands against a wall or the flat of a berth could ever achieve. Their fury was found justifiable in how circumstance brought them here, to the point in time when the fear of losing one another was stronger than the will to keep on enduring together. To try to make this _work_ despite their surroundings screaming reminders about their dread to be _truly_ alone. 

He made her cry once and he had never known such a motivation to do himself in then in that very _second_ he saw the tears magnify the edge of her optics. He didn’t even realize he’d said it till he tasted the remanence of the words in his mouth. She froze above him and so perplexed was he when she looked away and blinked her optics to squeeze the tears out that all he could think to do was kiss her. 

“I... I love you too…” she choked when his mouth found her chin, and he felt the movement of her jaw as she formed those dripping words against his lips, tasting the hesitant force it required her to utter each syllable. 

And that was the moment he knew that sparkbreak was physical. Yes, that very second was the moment he felt his spark split in two. It forced him to face that persistent dull ache in his chest, the very same that had grown since they decided this was what was in their best interest. He realized the pain was precisely what poets and morose friends had warned him about all along. And Primus, did he beg he could withhold her from experiences that same agony too. Burden him with it twofold if it meant Elita would not be privy to the feeling he was experiencing with such sudden brutality that he had to remove himself from inside her and just let her embrace him close. 

Where was the threshold for loving someone as a companion, a confidante, as trusted friend, and wanting them as a lover? Surely it couldn't just be sexual. But adjusting to friends rather than together as lovers shouldn't have been so terrible. 

This troubled him for a great while during their complex separation. If someone were to ask him, he would announce Elita One was his friend. His _best_ friend, and that they were settling with there being nothing more. In the interest of their responsibilities, as Prime and as Commander, it was best that there wasn't anything more. But was that lying when they would still manage to pull each other away the moment they had the chance each time their teams met at a rendezvous point? Certainly. 

He wondered if he needed to find a different kind of love for her. One that was similar to how he felt for Jazz, for Ironhide, and for Magnus. When he decided to look for it, this love he felt for his closest friends, he really did try to seek it out. He did. He put more effort into it than he thought he would ever need to, but with every attempt, it seemed his spark was trying to double him over. Finally collapse him to his knees by completing the crack that had been forming along his spark's casing ever since Elita took his face in her hands, kissed the top of his helm, and said, “After this is done… Let’s find a home somewhere. I’ll meet you there. But we _can't_ keep doing this, 'Rion.” 

He should’ve known that the love he felt for Elita was of a different variety all its own. One he would hold only for her and for her alone.

Only for her. 

But it was the waiting that was by far the hardest part. 

So how strange was it that even after _this_ was done and he was home, he was still surprised when she strode right through the door. 

Of course her ship was one of the last to return after the calls to _come home_ were cast. And of course he was probably the last one to know for how egregiously unprepared he was to see her walk on silenced peds right into the room where the fourth of the Autobot and Decepticon treaty meetings was being held on either side of five pushed together folding tables. 

Ultra Magnus was sitting next to Rodimus that day, and of course he didn't think anything of the vacancy between them. Of course he didn’t, far too focused on the mechs straight across from him that he had to rely on Megatron’s widened optics, the faint sound of the door closing, and the sounds of chairs shifting back, of mecha standing up in haste, to look over his shoulder.

He had never gotten to his peds so fast, standing in a rush that brought brief spots to his vision as he pulled Elita’s chair back. 

Of all the damned memorandums to miss, he would curse himself later when he read it, the one had to be the message from Magnus titled “Notification Concerning Commander E Arrival. Will Attend Treaty Meeting @ 0900” that arrived in his inbox at 0748. 

“Thank you,” Elita nodded, taking the chair next to Ultra Magnus in the succession of rank at exactly 0902. 

“Thank you for waiting,” she then said for the room to hear, granting the occupants permission to breathe again and for the Autobots to return to their seats. And Optimus had to bite his own lip behind his mask to keep himself composed. 

Prowl was summarizing the “progress “ made during the last session when he felt her looking at him. He couldn’t look back at her, despite how little he cared about the room’s occupants catching him drifting his attention from his Third in Command. Rather he had to keep himself in place lest he find her optics once again for the first time in nearly seven vorns without the barrier of distance and a screen between them. 

“Hello,” he whispered, setting back a bit further into his seat to fold his hands in his lap. 

“Hello,” she spoke softly back, lips probably barely moving. 

At 1305, he couldn’t stand it, Primus help him. He reached over to her under the table and it probably looked obvious with how their arms left their respective sides as they moved to take each other’s hand. 

_I’ll meet you there._

He smiled and stroked his thumb over her fingers. She squeezed him back. 

…

Optimus never held any sincere ire for Soundwave until that cycle when the mech dared to make the meeting carry over into the evening while he listed off a series of new propositions. He hated the mech for a short while, when the natural light was beginning to dim through the newly mounted windows, more than he thought himself capable of despising. But such an uncharacteristic emotion faded away in a matter of moments, of seconds, even in the span of how long it took him to fumble the code into his quarter’s keypad to open the damned door. 

“Come’ere,” she commanded him the moment the steel panels slid away from the threshold and she pulled him with her inside. He took her by the waist in his hands and nearly forgot to fold away his mask in his haste to kiss her again. He needed it, was practically suffocating without her air, and Elita, Primus bless her, planted her palms right onto his chest and pushed him against the wall to crash their exposed mouths together.

He couldn’t quite recall all that they had done that night. There was position after position upon his berth, from Elita getting him on his back and opening him up with one of his legs over her shoulder to Optimus getting her on her knees and wrapping his arm around her middle to keep her close as he intoxicated himself on the moans escaping her lips. She rode him at one point and the sight of her face, her sharp breaths between her closed denta, and how her hands held his own to her hips brought him to a climax that rocked him to his core. To his spark. To the cracks that were welding and curing by the minute. 

The clearest memory was that he was speaking to her when she came the first time. His fingers were inside her, stretching her, while his thumb rubbed and rolled her anterior node. He was sucking on her lower lip when he felt her begin to tighten, kissing her and renewing the experience of his glossa in her mouth. 

She warned him first that she was close and he pulled her into him, pressing them chest to chest while he resumed pleasuring her. 

“I love you,” was all he said. _I love you_ with a kiss to the top of her helm was all it took to get her to bury her face into his neck and moan deep in her throat as overload overtook her. 

“I love you,” he repeated while she remained tense against him, the walls of her valve spasming around his fingers. “Ariel. I love you, I love you, love you…”

She sighed into his neck when she finally came back to him. 

“Love you more.” 

… 

Optimus used to wonder how one can be so in love, yet not know at all what to do about it. 

He knows the answer now and it is that there is nothing that can be done about it, but rather one shall just have to let themself fall. 

Little seeming insignificanties of life become recurring tripping stones into love. Tripping stones along a path that he treads ever day yet will never look down to see where he is stepping. A laugh can be one, yes, and the way she sips a glass of engex in the middle of the night is another. Stones with over half of their mass still buried in the ground are the way she purposefully dances badly in the living room and the fire in her gaze during Counsil. Pitfalls are the way her shoulders twitch right before her optics open when he is watching her wake. 

Cliffs are the way she loves him, and he lands on his peds, perfectly fine, better even, when he falls to the bottom. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
